The Path to Righteousness

By Gina Hanson

Childhood to Adulthood by Chris Cable

I used to struggle with what to say when friends and acquaintances expressed their envy over my charmed life. Well, yes, the Lord has been very good to me, I would say. I used to sit and talk to the Lord, ask my heavenly father, why me? Why is my life so perfect? Of course, the Lord never answered me directly, but he did speak through Franklin. He told Franklin I was one of the chosen ones. I never ever brag, however. I am humble if not anything else.

Today, I am waiting for Franklin to return from his monthly trip into town. I have washed and dried two flower vases, readying them for the flowers that Franklin always brings home to me after these long trips. Peonies, daisies, roses, or tulips, whatever looks good as he roams up and down the Richford Farmer’s Market. The Lord blessed me when he brought Franklin into my life. He blessed me; that’s for darn sure.

The floor squeaks as I carry one of the flower vases over to the old chest of drawers that once belonged to Franklin’s grandmother. I smooth out the doily on which I have just set the vase. It’s such a beautiful vase, a gift from my sister. It shakes slightly.

She’s moving underneath me.

I stomp on the floor to shut her up. She must know Franklin is gone. That woman is the bane of my existence. I would never let Franklin know how I feel, but she is the most inconsiderate little tramp.

She’s thumping now. Each thump moves the vase slightly.

I stomp my feet again. If only Franklin was home. She behaves so much better when Franklin is home.

I grab my cleaning bucket from under the kitchen sink. When Franklin goes into town, I use the time to clean. Everyone knows what they say about cleanliness. I begin dusting Franklin’s dove collection. A collection of figurines that represents Franklin’s love of the Lord. I recite the Lord’s Prayer as I pick each piece up and wipe it free of its earthly grime.

The phone rings. “The Meyerhold residence,” I say into the receiver. “Well, hello, Mother Meyerhold. You’re up early.”

Franklin’s mother calls every Saturday. Usually, Franklin is here to take the call, often spending more than an hour on the phone with her. But on the days Franklin isn’t home, Mother Meyerhold speaks with me. She always tells me the same three childhood stories in which Franklin first demonstrated his willingness to serve the Lord.

First, the story about how Franklin would set out to discipline those farm animals that expressed far too much carnal knowledge for the sanctity of the Meyerhold farm. Next, the story of how Franklin gave hour-long sermons to his sister Caroline’s Barbie dolls, all of which he asked to lie in supplication to the Lord. Finally, Mother Meyerhold would tell me the story of how Franklin resisted the temptation of the Wilkens girl by reciting Ezekiel 16:35-36 in the face of her nakedness. The three stories together take about twenty-five minutes to tell.

“The Wilkens girl was stark naked, Mother Meyerhold?” I ask. “Well, if you ask me, that’s no way for a righteous young girl to act.” Sometimes I’d say moral instead of righteous.

Another thump comes from underneath my rocking chair. I am losing my patience. I am on the phone with Mother Meyerhold, and she is trying to interrupt.

“Okay, Mother Meyerhold. I’ll tell Franklin you called . . . you go rest now, sweetheart.” I hang up the phone. I hear crying.

I put a teakettle on to boil. After talking to Mother Meyerhold, I always make myself a cup of peppermint tea. And not just any tea, but Pembroke Peppermint tea; the finest peppermint tea Richford sells.

Her crying grows louder. Now I am getting angry. I know I promised Franklin I wouldn’t go down there, but I almost feel like the girl needs a stern talking to. He’s a messenger of the Lord, I want to scream at her. But deep down I know it won’t stop her longing for him. We all long for Franklin. I’m just the only one fortunate enough to call him my own.

I try to listen to Reverend Allen’s weekly radio show. It’s hard to hear over her sobbing. I pray for peace, but without Franklin here, I doubt the Lord is listening. The Lord follows Franklin wherever he goes. It takes a little getting used to—Franklin hogging up the Lord’s attention—but that’s just the way God’s will works, now isn’t it?

Reverend Allen is talking about the manifestation of evil. Don’t I know what he means? I’ve got the manifestation of lust thumping on my floor right now. “You’re lucky I’m a woman of God,” I say quietly. I don’t want her to tell Franklin I spoke to her.

She’s quiet now. Maybe finally I can lie down and take a nap.

I am awakened by her thumping. I get up from the couch and stomp on the floor.

My second stomp causes a piece of my framed embroidery to fall crooked. I straighten it. It’s one of my favorite pieces. I embroidered it while Franklin was away because of the misunderstanding. It was a dark time in our lives. I smile because I am reminded of how my commitment to prayer and my devotion to faith led the police department to drop all charges.

The radio dial is tuned to an oldies station playing the big band hits of the forties. Harry James sings “Sweet Lorraine.” I walk over to turn it up. This was Franklin’s song to me when we were courting. While other couples our age were sinning to the sounds of hippie music and rock ’n roll, Franklin and I were waltzing in our usual old-fashioned way. I dance lightly around the room. I close my eyes and remember the way Franklin held me, singing in my ear, “Each night I pray that nobody steals her heart away, I can’t wait until that lucky day when I marry sweet Lorraine.”

Her thumping disrupts my reverie. I clench my fists and bounce them off my temples. I turn down the radio. Turn it down so low that I can hear Franklin’s Ford rolling down the dirt road.

I give the house one last look-over to make sure it is perfect for Franklin’s return.

The sound of crackling grows louder. His truck rolls to a stop in the drive.

“Where is my sweet Lorraine?” he asks as he walks into the house. The wooden screen door bangs behind him. “I’ve got flowers and a message from God.”

I greet my Franklin at the door. “Flowers for me?” I say. “And a message from the Lord?”

“That’s right, lovebug. The Lord kept me company on my long drive home.” He kisses my forehead. “He wants you to meet her.”

“Wants me to meet her? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. He says your patience and virtue will protect you from any interaction with evil.” Franklin hands me the scissors to begin the trimming of the flowers’ stems.

“When?” I ask. “When will I get to meet her?”

“Tonight.”

“Really? Tonight?” I clip the last of the stems and place the flowers in the vase by the door.

“We had a long talk about it, and our Father agrees you should witness the ceremony.”

I stop. “Oh, no, Franklin. I’m not sure I’m ready for that . . . I . . .”

“Shh.” Franklin pulls me into his arms. “We do what we’re commanded, darling. We do what we’re commanded.” He leads me into a waltz while singing, “I’m as happy as a baby boy when he’s playing with his choo-choo toy . . .” He winks at me as we share the private meaning of the lyrics, “. . . when I’m with my sweet Lorraine.”

Franklin goes out to the truck to carry in his purchases. I’m unsettled. The Lord has commanded me to meet the woman. Franklin has explained the ritual to me before, but only as much as would preserve my virtue. I’m worried. What if her illness rubs off on me?

Once Franklin has brought in the rest of his things, he runs his hands under the faucet. “I’m going to go take a shower. We’ll go down after I’m done.”

Franklin goes upstairs.

She thumps downstairs. I think she has been thumping the whole time I was talking to Franklin, but such is the glory of Franklin—nothing else matters when he’s in a room.

I play out in my mind what I think the ceremony will look like. It wasn’t until our third year of marriage that Franklin’s problem began. Franklin prayed and soon learned that the real problem wasn’t him, but rather me—I was too pure. Because of Franklin’s closeness to the divine, his body wouldn’t work right when I stood before him as his wife. We longed for a solution. And then it came. In the form of the woman that lies beneath the very spot on which I stand.

The Lord explained to Franklin that in order for his body to respond in the way a husband’s body should, he would need to find a passion surrogate—a sexual muse. God sent us a woman, a woman who had a long list of sexual sins. As Franklin chipped away at her reservoir of lust, his own body was rejuvenated. The Lord told us it wouldn’t take long for her passion to become Franklin’s, and she could be freed to return to a life of righteousness.

I’ve never witnessed the exchange of passion, but tonight I suppose I’ll need to prepare myself for the event.

I sit in my rocking chair, stitching up the hem of my dress that has come undone. I cut the thread with my teeth and stick the needle into the red tomato pincushion sitting on my chair-side table. Franklin is moving around upstairs, and that woman is thrashing around downstairs. I feel an inexplicable electricity running through my body. In just a few minutes, I will witness the exchange between my beloved husband and the woman sent to save us.

I can still hear the radio faintly playing music. It’s playing Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” I’ve always wondered what Mr. Miller was in the mood for.

“You ready, Sweetheart?” Franklin’s voice cannot hide his excitement. He is wearing the robe I knitted for him last Christmas.

I stand and smooth out the wrinkles on my dress. I run my hands along my bobbed hair, plumping up the ends until they are perfectly curled under. “Do I look ok?”

“As pretty as an angel who’s just earned her wings.” He offers his hand to me.

Hand in hand, Franklin and I walk down the eight steps to the basement. Franklin switches on the light to illuminate an immaculate room, free of all clutter and dirt. The room is bare with the exception of an old dining room chair, an old picnic bench, and a plywood crate that reaches from floor to ceiling.

She is quiet. It’s all so very quiet.

Franklin guides me over to the picnic bench. “I’m so excited you are finally going to witness this, Lorraine.” He brushes off the bench and motions for me to sit. “Just sit here. You mustn’t interfere, my darling, okay?”

I nod. Franklin goes over to the crate and flips a latch.

“Ginny, you are to wait until you are instructed to come out. Is that understood?” No sound comes from the crate. Franklin moves the old chair to face the crate. He sits in it and gathers the sides of his robe up over his lap. “Okay, Ginny. You can proceed.”

I’m having trouble breathing. It is the first time that I am hearing the woman’s name. Ginny. I assume it is derived from Virginia. How ironic, the most virginal name ever invented wasted on a two-bit whore—

I stop myself. If the Lord has requested my presence at the ceremony, he must think Virginia is ready to return to a life of righteousness. I have no right to condemn her when our Lord and Savior has deemed her salvageable. I close my eyes and take a deep breath as I hear the hinges on the crate squeak. I can hear bare footsteps move slowly across the basement’s concrete floor.

I open my eyes and see her. I gasp. I look to Franklin, searching for some sign that there has been some sort of mistake. But Franklin only smiles, opening his robe to reveal his forbidden parts. I panic. This can’t be. The person standing in front of Franklin is a girl, a little girl, of no more than ten or eleven.

She’s just a girl.

“Begin the dance I’ve taught you, Ginny.” Franklin’s hand moves to his groin.

The little girl begins a dance. Her ill-fitting dress falls off her shoulder as she moves. She looks at me and lowers her head.

“Franklin . . .”

“Shh, Lorraine. You must be quiet. The transfer of lust cannot be interrupted.” His husbandly parts grow.

“But Franklin . . .”

“Lorraine, please.” His hand moves along himself in a most vile manner.

“I can’t, Franklin,” I say, standing up, “I can’t watch this . . . it . . . it’s an abomination. This is the work of the devil.”

Franklin is unmoved by my words. His eyes are transfixed on the girl. She keeps swaying back and forth, the ends of her dress gripped in her hands as she moves them to and fro.

“Franklin, do you hear me? This is not right.”

Franklin is starting to moan and breathe quickly. His hand jerks up and down. I can’t move. I choke down a cry. This can’t be happening.

Franklin speaks in a breathy growl, “Ginny . . . what do you say to me?”

“I want you. Mr. Meyerhold,” the child’s voice begins, “I want you to—”

“Stop!” I turn to Franklin. “This is not the work of the Lord, Franklin. It’s not.”

Franklin ignores me. I can no longer hold back the tears and I run from the basement, leaving my husband to engage in lustful activities with the girl, the poor little girl.

Upstairs, I pace the kitchen floor. It’s all wrong. This is all wrong. I was told she was a sinner. How can a little girl . . .?

I pick up the phone receiver. I can’t feel the Lord with me; he must still be with Franklin. “I need guidance, Lord. Oh, please, guide me.”

The radio plays Tommy Dorsey’s “The Lady is a Tramp.” I inch over to it, phone receiver still in hand, and turn it up. Although the Lord actually talks to Franklin, I do believe he is limited in only communicating with me in signs. The song on the radio must surely be a sign. I place the phone receiver back on its cradle. Is it a sign? But she’s a little girl, not even close to being a lady yet.

I search my mind for a passage in the Bible that could explain what is happening. But all I see is one little girl, dancing in my mind, far away from her parents. I pick up the phone once again. What if Franklin has lied to me? What if the Lord has had nothing to do with this?

I dial the police department. I know the number by heart because I have to use it about once a week whenever I find those high school kids on our land doing all their sinful behaviors. We’ve got a beautiful pond on the south side of our property where the local kids like to hang out and get high, or worse, fornicate.

The lustful nature of kids. Perhaps that’s what brought this little girl into Franklin’s life. Maybe the Lord is trying to save her from the likes of those teenagers that sully our property with their lust and sin.

The operator at the police department answers the phone on the fifth ring, but I just hang up. Now flee from youthful lusts and pursue righteousness, love and peace with those who call on the Lord with a pure heart. Timothy 2:22. Franklin is helping that poor girl flee from her youthful lusts. I am certain now.

And I may have just ruined all of his hard work. I hang my head in disgust.

I am sitting in my rocking chair when Franklin comes up from downstairs. “I’m disappointed in you, Lorraine. I thought you had the power of the Holy Spirit in you, but I can see you are as weak as the rest of the Lord’s flock.”

“I’m sorry, Franklin.”

Franklin shakes his head and walks up the stairs. I rise from my rocking chair and move to the phone. I stop to smell the flowers in the vase on Franklin’s grandfather’s chest of drawers. I pick up the phone and dial.

Ginny thumps from below me.

“Mother Meyerhold?” I say. “Do you still have Father Meyerhold’s Tommy Dorsey record collection?”

Ginny thumps louder.

I stomp on the floor to shut her up. “Yes, there’s one song in particular that I’m looking for.” I stomp again. “Great, I’ll have Franklin pick them up on his next trip to town. Thank you, Mother Meyerhold.”

I hang up the phone and turn up the radio. If I’m going to share my home with a tramp, I’d better get used to listening to my music on a higher volume.

Gina Hanson is a UCLA graduate who was recently accepted into California State University, San Bernardino's inaugural MFA program. She lives in Southern California's Inland Empire with her partner and a menagerie of ill-behaved critters.

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